


Besotted

by Agent_24



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Chapter 3, M/M, Pining, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Arthur's musings on one Charles Smith, in all his simplistic beauty.





	Besotted

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for this to be longer, but I wasn't sure where I wanted to take it. I hope you enjoy what I have in the meantime.

Charles is a beautiful man.

Arthur is not blind, and so he knows this from the moment Dutch comes trailing into camp with one more rider than he’d set out with. Arthur is by nature a suspicious man, and although he has faith in Dutch, it will take him some time to get used to yet another new face. But Charles Smith has a firm, solid handshake and a quiet manner of speaking that doesn’t quite match his broad stature, so Arthur supposes he’s alright for now.

Charles proves himself, of course. He is a good shot, and a good horseman, and he keeps his wits about him in a raid. This the most important thing in Arthur’s opinion, considering the last stray Dutch had brought in (one Micah Bell, who has been here only one month longer than Charles, and Arthur does not care for him at all).

Charles is a good hunter too, which Arthur is desperately grateful to find out after Blackwater. Charles is a better tracker than any of them and can bring back twice as much meat thanks to his insistence that rifles only make things harder, and Arthur wonders if they’d have survived that spring blizzard if not for him.

And Charles is beautiful. Arthur is hard pressed to forget this detail, though most of the time it is little more than a passing thought. Arthur has done his best not to consider romance since Mary Linton, which may well be a fool’s errand, but it’s for the best; couples never seem to be happy in this camp, if the Marstons are anything to go by, or even poor Miss Molly O’Shea.

Arthur is not entirely sure how well the whole thing would go over anyways. Hypothetically. And he is not sure someone like Charles would even glance his way, regardless.

Nonetheless, Charles is beautiful and nice to look at, and Arthur has only avoided sketching him for the overwhelming fear that he will be caught. This is silly, he knows, because he is never caught drawing anyone else, or if he is then they all seem rather flattered by seeing their likeness on the page. But he is expressly mortified by the thought of Charles catching him, and so if he must draw near Charles at all, then Arthur keeps his journal tucked close to his chest.                                        

(But Arthur is tempted, quite terribly, to sketch Charles’ wide nose and full lips. He wants to capture the swell of his arms as he chops wood or draws his bow, the cut of his broad shoulders as he disappears into the treeline to guard camp, the way the moonlight catches his dark hair.)

Despite Arthur’s initial reservations, Charles earns his trust quickly. Maybe too quick, Arthur thinks, but jobs with Charles don’t go wrong like they do with Bill or Micah or Uncle. Charles is remarkably competent, and he is not a braggart about it, and in fact acts as though being as useful as he tends to be is merely an expectation. Months go by and Arthur likes this more and more, likes Charles more and more, and this is how he comes to the conclusion that he is painfully, royally, well and truly _fucked_.

* * *

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Charles says.

Arthur, by virtue of the fact that his throat hurts like an absolute bitch, is inclined to disagree, and imagines there will be an awful purple line there before evening. He should feel crabby about this, he supposes, when even talking hurts and will only get worse as the bruises settle, but Charles’ hands are gentle on his jaw and it’s _distracting_. Arthur is thinking about those quick fingers and that throwing knife more than he is thinking about his bruises or about Trelawny, and he is thinking — deeply now, perhaps for the first time — about how much he would like to kiss Charles.

“I’ll be alright,” Arthur replies, though he won’t really, not with the way his chest and his belly and a whole bunch of other places are growing warm the longer Charles has his hands on him.

Charles claps his shoulder, offers Arthur one of those rare smiles. “You’re tough,” he agrees, then sets off towards Trelawny again. “Come on, let’s see how he’s holdin’ up.”

Arthur wishes he could pause time and sketch this scene; Charles, his back turned, the blue of his shirt soft against the vibrant yellow of the cornfields, dark hair tumbling down his broad shoulders, gait easy as if he did not just throw a knife at a man with all the ease in the world.

 _You have my friend,_ he’d said, and Arthur thinks about that a little too hard.

And Trelawny, that slippery bastard, is mostly fine. Beat up, but Arthur knows he’s had worse, and he’s back on his feet within a couple of days. Arthur, meanwhile, spends time working up the nerve to ask Charles to take him hunting again, only to be interrupted by Dutch’s frequent inspirations concerning the Grays and the Braithwaites.

When he is back from setting the Gray’s field on fire, Arthur makes a deliberate point of avoiding Dutch’s tent.

“Mr. Smith,” he says with faint and faux air of formality, and maybe his heart leaps when Charles raises an amused brow at him, “I...I’m afraid I’m a terrible tracker, still.”

Charles sits back a little. It’s too early in the day for the fire to cast its soft glow over Charles’ skin, but the sun streaming through the trees does a nice enough job. His eyes are full of mirth. “That so,” he says, and it is not a question.

Arthur knows he did a rather mediocre job of tracking Trelawny’s kidnappers, and he is banking on the fact that Charles noticed this too. “I’d like another lesson, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble,” Charles says, and Arthur’s left to wonder if he sounds a little pleased.

If Arthur pushes his thoroughbred a little faster when Dutch calls for him distantly, Charles doesn’t make a comment on it.

“Have you practiced?” Charles asks.

“A little,” Arthur admits. “When I can. Been so busy with all this mess…”

Charles just hums in agreement. Arthur makes the brief and terrible mistake of imagining that voice in some other kind of low noise. “You did well, tracking Trelawny,” Charles says.

Arthur flushes. “Horses are easy,” he says, brushing off the compliment. “Wasn’t like they were trying to hide, either. S’wild animals I can’t track for nothin’.”

“It takes time,” Charles answers patiently. “And more practice than you’ve been getting.” He pauses, and Arthur watches him out of his peripheral while a comfortable silence settles for just a moment. “Could start taking you with me when I go,” he offers.

This suggestion is the kind of thing that makes Arthur’s heart flutter. He thinks that managing whatever he’s been feeling for Charles has remained fairly easy up ‘till recently, and he is convinced that spending more time with Charles — alone — will only make things worse. But Arthur also knows that he is selfish, and that he has gone a long time living in a way that means he snatches up what he wants quickly before anybody else can take it.

So he says, “If Dutch hasn’t got me doin’ something, sure.”

Charles smiles. Arthur commits it to memory, in case he is ever suddenly over his cowardice about sketching the man’s portrait in his journal.

They find a secluded patch of woods and leave the horses by the treeline. Arthur can feel Charles’ eyes on him while he readies his bow. Today’s lesson, Charles tells him, is tracking small game for when deer can’t be found. The land is full of fat rabbits and American turkey and Arthur kills some of both even as he struggles to track the little things, and he is not sure if Charles leaning in close to point out signs or give advice is distracting him or if he is just god awful at it.

Perhaps it is both.  

They come across a deer without meaning to; Charles’ silently takes hold of Arthur’s arm and points it out, and Arthur kills it to have something substantial to bring back to Pearson. He is not thinking about Charles touching him.

“You’re a fast learner,” Charles says, his voice tinged with pride as he claps Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll make a bowman out of you, yet.”

Now, Arthur is a fool, and he knows this, and he knows that his biggest flaw is that he is easily done in by praise. It has never been more glaringly obvious than it is now, while his heart sings at the words and his cheeks flush warm faster than a brush fire, and he thinks he could keep hunting for hours more.

He is about to suggest it when Charles says, “We’re still near the river. You want to go for a swim before we head back?”

“A swim?” Arthur repeats dumbly.

“Sure,” Charles says. He’s grinning, like he’s up to something mischievous and boyish, and Arthur suddenly feels as though he must be ten years younger than he is. “It’s hot. The wind’ll dry us while we ride back to camp. And you got a deer, so nobody can say we took time to mess around.”

Arthur desperately wants to mess around, but he’s certain the kind of ‘mess around’ he’s thinking about isn’t the same kind of ‘mess around’ Charles is thinking of. Camp life means he’s seen the whole of the Van der Linde gang naked more times than he cares to count, but this will be Charles naked and wet for fun —

Arthur decides he is an even bigger fool than he thought, because he says, “Why the hell not?” when he knows damn well why the hell not.

Charles hefts the deer over his shoulder and Arthur tries not to stare at his arms. Slate nickers at Arthur for sugar cubes while Charles stows the deer on his back, and clicks his tongue in mock disapproval when Arthur sneaks one to Taima too.

“You’re spoilin’ her,” Charles says, and laughs when Arthur stutters in embarrassment.

“I didn’t think you’d mind —” he says quickly.

“I don’t,” Charles interrupts. “I’m just teasing.”

Arthur wishes he could hear that laughter all the time. Charles is often so serious and quiet, and the circumstances surrounding their little ragtag band of outlaws are often miserable at best, so this seems special somehow, like a secret, happier side of Charles that only Arthur has been allowed to see.

He warms again. If Charles notices the flush of his cheeks or the way he ducks his head to hide it under the brim of his hat, he doesn’t say anything.

Arthur does not realize his mistake until they are at the river; they dismount and leave the horses to graze, drop their weapons in the sand in case they need to make a quick grab for them, kick off their boots and drop their belts and then Charles takes off his shirt. This is, or should be, a simple and expected thing given what they are here to do, and yet Arthur finds that he is woefully unprepared for the image of Charles stripping out of his clothes.

“Are we skinny dippin’?” Arthur asks, voice pitched high.

Charles has already kicked off his pants and is reaching for his drawers. He pauses with his hands at his hips. “You mind?” he asks over his shoulder.

“‘Course not,” Arthur says, feeling foolish. He can’t really say exactly how much he doesn’t mind, just like he can’t mention how nicely shaped Charles is. And Arthur respects Charles — more than anything, Arthur respects him — and so he makes an effort not to stare too long or let his gaze wander south, and focuses on getting his shirt unbuttoned with clumsy fingers.

Charles wades into the water while Arthur’s still shucking his pants, in up to his thighs before he dives under the water and swims deep. Arthur tosses his clothes by his boots and looks back just in time to see him surface, and it strikes him once more that he is an utterly smitten fool.

Charles shakes his loose hair off his face, inky black sticking to his shoulders. Water drips off the tip of his nose. “C’mon, Arthur, water’s fine!” he calls, waving him over, and if Arthur scrambles a little faster at that then it’s not as if he could help himself. He wades in messy and splashing and ducks underwater with admittedly less grace than Charles had, then surfaces next to him just in time to get splashed in the face.

Arthur spits out a mouthful of river water and takes a small moment to marvel and grin while Charles laughs, then bats water back at him. Charles tries to shield his face with his arm and it does no good, and this starts a war of sorts that ends up with Arthur dunking Charles till he taps out. Charles comes up coughing and spitting and throws Arthur a glare full of pretend venom as he wipes his face.

“I win,” Arthur says.

“This time,” Charles allows, kicking his feet up to float on his back. Arthur abruptly looks away and sinks underwater, eyes squeezed shut. It’s nice being submerged for a moment, cut off from the rest of the world.

When he surfaces, Charles is looking at him, dark hair floating by his face.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“You okay, Arthur?” Charles asks.

Arthur pauses. People ask him this all the time, which may be some sign that he rather frequently appears to not be okay, despite his very best efforts. But usually Arthur says that he is fine, unless one of the girls pulls him down for a talk as private as one can be in a camp of near twenty, or Arthur will say he is alright, but has been better, and then whoever asked will nod at him and be on their way.

Which is fine; Arthur has never had even an inkling of want to spill all his worries to any open ear. But he will not get away with that answer here, and he knows this because Charles is looking at him with a very specific kind of gentleness and sincerity that Arthur has seen few times in his life, and he knows that it would be ungrateful and untrue to say that he is fine.

“You ever feel like you’re losin’ your mind, Charles?” he asks quietly, and he knows the answer already; Charles is a better man than him, and he does not have to think to be good, and so Charles is probably really and truly doing fine in that department.

“Sometimes,” Charles admits.

Arthur looks up.

“I ran by myself for so long, I figured being in a group would be...easy. Safer.” Charles pauses. “Most are nice enough,” he says after a moment, “But I think we get up to more than we need to, sometimes. Makes my hair stand on end.”

Arthur stares at him. He thinks Charles has always been beautiful to him from a distance. He thinks he might be better up close.

“I think all I do now is kill folks,” Arthur says, and his throat feels tight.

Charles lets his feet sink, treading upright now. Water trails down his jaw. “You’re more than what Dutch makes you, Arthur Morgan,” he says.

Arthur feels somewhat like he’s been punched in the chest, only pleasantly, maybe. He does not say anything about how Dutch has been worrying him lately, or about how much things have changed since Blackwater. He says, “Feels like I ain’t any better than Micah, sometimes.”

Charles, bless him, seems insulted by this. His handsome face furrows, a wrinkle in his nose and a twitch in his brow. He says, “Micah would never treat me kindly, Arthur. You’re better than him in that regard alone.”

And Arthur, bless him, thinks in that moment that he might be in love with Charles Smith.


End file.
